


Pas de Deux

by Battteredrelic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Double Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Battteredrelic/pseuds/Battteredrelic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's different, not dancing alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of a series, inspiration willing.

The first inkling Sherlock had that something was awry came when his flatmate of a week's duration emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a large beige towel wrapped around his waist. 

With the damp strands of his chestnut hair ruffled and spiky, John Watson put Sherlock in mind of nothing so much as a hedgehog, a very _cute_ hedgehog. A startling comparison for one of his clinically detached personality, not to mention an adjective he'd never before used unironically, and it gave him pause.

But not as much pause as the sensation, that he realised after a few seconds was actually an _emotion_ , that rose inside him when his gaze fell upon the puckered pale pink scar in John's left shoulder. His mind immediately set to work analysing it - the angle the bullet had taken, the penetration and depth, the calibre - but something else was at work as well.

 _That must have hurt like the devil_ , thought the man who beat corpses with a riding crop.

John paused in front of him. "Tea?" he inquired.

"Hmm?" Quite odd, his reaction, Sherlock mused, steepling his fingers.

"Sherlock?"

After a moment John shrugged and marched off to the kitchen.


	2. Pas de Deux 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some human impulses are stronger than his will.

John rarely smiled, and yet Sherlock sensed that it wasn't from natural reserve as much as life having beaten the inclination out of him. It was an insight that surprised him; normally he only noticed facial expressions when it served some purpose: to solve a case or to embarrass or annoy the pompous fools at Scotland Yard. There was no purpose served by noticing John's smiles or the lack thereof. He had already deduced everything he needed to know about his new flatmate within minutes of meeting him. 

Yet he did notice. Indeed he found himself watching for that rare flash of square white teeth and wishing it might put in an appearance more often. Because he liked John's smile: liked how it softened his austere countenance and warmed his eyes. 

Sherlock also found himself searching for ways to make John smile, which annoyed him. He had better things to do with his time, and he'd never quite understood the forms of humor that appealed to most people. But it didn't stop him from trying. It seemed that some human impulses could prove stronger than his will. Unfortunately the methods he used failed more often than not, and it was when he wasn't being intentionally humorous that he made John smile. An involuntary 'I can't believe you said (or did) that' smile, but a smile _was_ a smile.

"Ah, I did it again, didn’t I..."

"Yes, Sherlock." Then John would laugh, really laugh.

And Sherlock liked John’s laughter even better.


	3. Fitting In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a place where he fits in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's POV this time. Despite whatever word count AO3 gives this, it's actually exactly 221 words. :-)

John never thought he'd fit in anywhere ever again. In Afghanistan he'd come face to face with a side of himself that left him equal parts proud and appalled - and it was the pride that appalled him. He was a doctor; more, he was a civilized man. How could he exult in a taste for danger? Revel in the awakening of the assassin in his soul?

But once awakened, this newly found part of himself couldn't be put to sleep again. It could only be repressed, crushed like a cigarette under an army officer's boot heel. PTSD, his psychiatrist told him, and he did his very best to believe her, to act the part, to embrace the therapy she counselled. Because if he admitted what was actually depressing him, if he admitted he missed the excitement, the uncertainty, the danger, what sort of man did that make him?

So he kept a sterile, meaningless blog, and the cigarette smoldered, sullenly.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's penetrating gaze saw past self-deception to the truth of who and what John really was. Once more brought face to face with that repressed self, John didn't flinch but embraced it and brought it into the light, as he was brought into 221B Baker Street and a world where at last he fit in.


End file.
